a snapped thread

In 2019, I visited Ukraine. I was in search of something, not just any relations who might remain in my grandfather’s village, though I found some, a moment I will never forget (though to be accurate, they found me, they drove a considerable distance to spend time with me, and I think about that all the time), and in some ways it was as though a snapped thread was mended.

I have watched from this great distance as the country my grandfather left has been attacked, its population brutalized, terrorized, and I have done what I was able to. I’ve sent money to a number of organizations providing support, I’ve sent money to a local group housing and supporting Ukrainians who’ve chose to settle on the Coast (and I offered our home for temporary shelter, though it was decided we were too far away from services…). Maybe there’s more that I can do. I’m open to any suggestions.

But what I won’t do any longer is stay quiet about the repugnant President and Vice-President of the United States of America. What happened yesterday in the Oval Office as those two men, and others supporting them, gaslit and insulted Volodymyr Zelenskyy was beyond appalling. It was ugly, repugnant, and beyond any kind of acceptable behaviour. Ukraine’s President has more courage in his left elbow than the American President will ever demonstrate. Ditto for JD Vance. They are bullies of the worst sort and maybe the worst thing is no one is stopping them. They are ugly Americans. I don’t understand how they were elected and for ages I’ve thought, Oh, it’s not really my business, but of course it’s my business. It’s yours. It’s ours. I want my country to do more for Ukraine. There’s been too much soft-step shuffling about weapons, membership in various organizations of European states, treaty organizations, and so on. It’s time our government did everything possible to allow Ukraine to defend itself (and us, because this is about all of us, and if you think Russia will stop at Ukraine, I’ve got a bridge I can sell you…) and it’s time that we turn away from the ghastly show south of the border and have nothing more to do with that economy. I won’t knowingly buy American goods until the administration changes, I won’t travel to the US, I won’t, I won’t, I won’t. I am angry almost beyond words but words are what I have.

In 2019, we attended an event in Bukovets, a feast representing a Hutsul wedding, though the celebrants were volunteers, some of them members of the group I was travelling with. It was one of the most joyous afternoons of my life. And in the middle of it, the woman who was guiding us and translating for us came to me to say she’d just had a phone call to say that living relatives of my grandfather had been found and they would meet me later at our hotel. The photograph above was taken from the table where I was sitting, looking down into a soft valley, and at that moment, I was part of the trees and grass, I was among my people, and what happened in Washington yesterday happened to them and to me. They deserve more. We all do.

We arrive to the wedding in a van holding twenty people. The villagers greet us with horilka made with golden root or mountain ginseng, sweet rolls, little toasts spread with salo. A wedding bower is set up on grass between two houses, with two long tables framing the area. Below us, the green lawn slopes away to the most beautiful valley, a cow here, soft trees there, a hut, the sound of geese and ducks in a pond below us. The bride’s hair is braided with ribbons and coins, she is dressed in a smock intricately embroidered with poppies and roses, and aproned front and back, her waist bound with a long sash. Her groom is just as splendid. While her headdress is being arranged, women sing. More horilka is distributed to guests.

A few hours later we are eating a feast at the long tables. Platters of meat and cheese, cabbage salad, fresh bread, pale yellow butter, cucumbers flecked with dill, bowls of borscht, peppers stuffed with rice and onions, varenyky, bowls of rich smetana, dishes of pork in rich gravy over creamy potatoes, doughnuts light as air. Toast after toast to the couple (who are only pretending to be married so that we can witness the rituals), the guests whom we number ourselves among, the people of the village, young and old. We dance the old dances, whirling in the warm air, and laughing so hard that you can’t tell who speaks Ukrainian, who doesn’t. It all sounds like happiness.

When it was time to leave, our host, the young schoolteacher who lives in one of the houses framing the location, told us (partly in English, partly in animated Ukrainian translated by our guide) to remember that this was our land, that we must return, that we should bring our children, and our grandchildren. Your land, he emphasized. You are welcome here.

Note: the passage of prose is from my essay, “Museum of the Multitude Village”, included in my book, Blue Portugal and Other Essays.